


BACCALAUREATE SERMON, 



A2*D 



ORATION AND POEM. 



I 



CLASS OF 1867. 




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CAMBRIDGE : 

PRESS OF JOHN WILSON AND SON. 
1867. 






BACCALAUREATE SERMON, 



ORATION AND POEM. 



CLASS OF 1867. 



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CAMBRIDGE : 

PEESS OF JOHN WILSON AND SON. 
1867. 



ClasiS €0tttmftl£e. 



GEORGE COMBE MANN, Cambridge, Mass. 
JOSEPH LEAVITT SANBORN, Hampton Falls, N.H. 
ARTHUR BROOKS, Boston, Mass. 



MANHOOD. 



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PREACHED BEFORE THE GRADUATING CLASS, 

June 16, 1867. 

By ANDREW P. PEABODY. 



SERMON. 



" Show thyself a man." — 1 Kings ii. 2. 

THE prime object of a liberal education is not the impart- 
ing of certain kinds or degrees of knowledge, but the 
development of an advanced type of manliness, — the cul- 
ture of those attributes by which a man may take and keep 
the high place assigned him by his Creator, as lord of this 
lower world, and the destined heir of a far nobler inher- 
itance hereafter. These attributes are both of mind and 
of heart. It is chiefly with the former that we have been 
concerned in our course of academic instruction. You are 
already aware, and will become still more so, that you have 
learned but little here. What I trust you have attained 
is the capacity of learning, the skill to find what you need 
or wish to know, and the power of analyzing, combining, 
generalizing, assimilating, and re-creating — in forms that 
bear the signature of your own minds — whatever you do 
know or shall know. It is not in any definite amount of 
knowledge, but in the ability to acquire and use knowledge, 
that a liberal education consists. This ability is the token 
and measure of a manly intellect, of mastership over re- 
sources, of lordship in the realm of mind. Of this I shall 



6 



not now speak at length, but will content myself with urging 
you to preserve and mature your intellectual manhood, by 
giving the first place to the athletic exercise of the faculties, 
and the second, though always an essential, place to the 
accumulation of materials for their future use ; and with 
begging you to avoid equally a contented acquiescence in 
your present attainments, and the crowding of the memory 
beyond the capacity of orderly stowage. 

My prime object, as in accordance with the sacredness of 
the place and occasion, is to present some of the character- 
istics and the claims of that moral and spiritual manhood, 
which, while it breaks up the delicate lines and indents the 
rounded proportions that mark a lower type of beauty, yet 
combines, with its strength, beauty of a far higher order in 
the knotted sinews of strenuous purpose, in the scars — not 
wound-marks, but glory-marks — of successful conflict with 
evil, in the furrows ploughed by the continuous, anxious 
endeavor to comprehend the true, to embody the right, and 
to realize the good. 

In the first place, the true man regards as a sacred trust 
his own individuality ; by which I mean those traits wherein 
God intended that he should differ from those around him, as 
he does in form and feature, — those traits which make him, 
to use a grammatical distinction, a proper and not a common 
noun, — an individual, and not a member of such or such 
classes or bodies of men. Our age has won the distinction of 
breaking down the barriers that used to divide nation from 
nation, and inaugurating the intercourse by steam and tele- 
graph, which tends to fuse the civilized world into one vast 
and almost homogeneous nationality. It is entitled to the 
less enviable distinction of doing more than all preceding 
ages toward breaking down the barriers between man and 
man, the fences of individual character, the sacredness of 
private opinion, judgment, and habit. The press and the 
caucus tyrannize over one's life as a citizen, and confine his 



political action within limits as narrow, though not always 
as straight, as those which bound a railway track ; while a 
vote or act not pre-arranged by his party, even though the 
dictate of honesty, brands him with very much the same 
kind of stigma that iised to attach to dishonesty. In social 
life, fashion usurps a similar control ; and her dicta, ema- 
nating no one knows whence, yet with a sovereignty which 
no one dares to resist, are suffered to override all considera- 
tions of health, comfort, propriety, integrity, and religion ; 
while the dissenter, though his dissent be enforced by neces- 
sity, or by conscience, which ought to be the most cogent of 
necessities, is treated as a person excommunicate. As to 
moral habits, the customs of every community and of every 
circle seem a constraining law within its own precincts ; and 
fewer than ever before have the courage and energy to mark 
out and pursue their own higher path. 

It is refreshing to read the memoirs of such men as flour- 
ished in New England a century, or even half a century, 
ago. They bear about the same relation to such biographies 
as men, I fear, are preparing for themselves now, that a 
river bears to a canal, — the canal having only the tow-path, 
locks, and ports of lading, to mark its course ; the river 
winding, at its own sweet will, between verdant banks, now 
through forest, now through meadow, now broader, now 
narrower, then doubling upon itself, and presenting at every 
turn new types and groupings of scenery. By this mer- 
ging of individualities, none can deny that life, both acted 
and written, is losing all of its picturesque elements. 

But what concerns us here is the moral sacrifice occa- 
sioned by this lack of independenca. By every surrender 
of the judgment to pressure or dictation from without, 
violence is done to the moral nature ; a wrench is given to 
conscience ; there is a deterioration of principle. He who 
compromises his integrity in political action, or in some 
matter of social custom, is not, as to his own private affairs, 



8 



the man that he else would be. In matters of vital moment 
to his own soul, he is the more ready to sacrifice principle to 
expediency, to tamper with the right, to postpone decision 
and action where they are needed and due, to yield where 
he should control and guide. He has parted with a portion 
of his manhood, and he cannot resume it at will. 

I am inclined to believe, that this external pressure con- 
stitutes the greatest moral peril of young men. They cer- 
tainly are liable to some besetting sins to which they can 
have no internal temptation. For instance : no inward 
impulse ever made a well-nurtured youth a blasphemer. 
Such a one, in becoming profane in speech, must of neces- 
sity violate innate sentiments, deepened by all the influence 
of his earliest years and associations, especially by all that 
was sacred in a mother's purity and love. But am I wrong 
in saying, that, in some circles of young men, profaneness 
is the current dialect, — the shibboleth without which one 
would seem an intruder and a spy ? This is not because 
any one of them doubts the wickedness and vileness of the 
habit ; but because no one of them has the manliness to 
consult his own conscience, and abide by it, — because every 
new member of the circle has suffered the wall with which 
God has fenced in his soul from all other souls to be broken 
down, and its stones, laid by no human hand, to be tram- 
pled in the mire. 

Intemperance often has a yet prior cause in transmitted 
and hereditary appetite. But, where this cause is lacking, 
the first steps in the way to ruin are almost always to be 
traced to a deficient manliness, to the inability to say No, to 
the submission of the individual soul in that which it con- 
demns to the imperative tyranny of a custom which frowns 
on abstinence, and not infrequently on moderation. I could 
point out to you those no longer young, who, for years urged 
by conscience to resist the encroachments of this habit, and 
lacking only the manliness to do as they knew they ought, 



9 



have now outlived the power of resistance, and, by grada- 
tions which they are the only persons not to mark, are laps- 
ing from what they call generous living into an habitual 
sottishness, that must whelm their latter years in imbecility 
and dishonor. 

In every department of moral duty, the strongest opposi- 
tion that virtue encounters is from the fear, or shame, or 
self-abasement, or whatever it is, which makes one false to 
conscience and to God, rather than to custom and the will 
of man, — careless of his individual convictions, and eager 
only to know how others think and feel. It never was so 
true as now, that 

" Broad is the road that leads to death, 
And thousands walk together there ; " 

and, did they not " walk together," there would be more 
hope of reclaiming them. Were the errors of each self-born 
and self-nurtured, there would be at least room for the work- 
ing of that gospel which addresses its appeals, and extends 
its offices, to the individual soul : but now, more than ever 
before, the individual has not an independent existence, an 
active conscience of his own ; and he can therefore be reached 
only through the mass, influenced only through the leaven 
which works in those around him, converted only when they 
are ready to change their position with him. The prodigal, 
in our Lord's parable, did not come to himself in the midst 
of his companions ; but only when they had stripped him of 
his substance, and left him alone, so that his individuality 
was forced back upon him. He had gone from himself 
through their influence ; he came to himself when that in- 
fluence was withdrawn. 

We need, secondly, to defend our manhood, not only 
against encroachment from without, but equally against 
our own supineness and indolence. The supremacy of the 
will over mere inclination, and over the fitful activity of 

2 



10 



the emotional nature, is an essential element of manliness. 
There are times when our life-work seems spontaneous, and 
therefore easy. There are other times, (and they are not 
infrequent), when, with a clear perception of duty, we are 
conscious of coldness, sluggishness, and reluctance as to its 
performance, — of the spirit which cries. To-morrow, when 
conscience says, To-day and Now. While our life-work 
always burns and urges, we are often tempted to let its due 
season go by, because our feelings are not level with its 
demands ; to follow instinct rather than duty ; to wait for 
the afflatus, instead of inviting and stirring it by earnest 
effort. 

It is a delicious breathing of spiritual dilettanteism, but a 
strain utterly unworthy of our manhood, — 

" Sighing, I cry, Sweet Spirit, come ! 
Celestial breeze, no longer stay ; 
But swell my sails, and speed my way." 

The discharge of duty against inclination, the studying of 
its times rather than of our times, is the part of true manli- 
ness. Its times Providence marks : our times may often 
fail to overtake them ; and, when we are in a mood which 
befits them, it may be too late for them. There is no need, 
in order that we may do our work, that the entire working 
apparatus of the soul be in perfect trim. We may pray for 
the celestial breeze ; but we need not wait for it, so long as 
ours is the sinewy oar-arm. Nay, strenuous, manly effort, 
in what we know God would have us do, is our most efficient 
prayer for the renewed breathing of the Divine Spirit. In 
this sense, lahorare est orare, — to labor is to pray. If we 
ply the oar with true aim and resolute purpose, it will not 
be long before the heavenly breeze will spring up, and the 
flapping sails be filled, and the weary oar-arm be superseded 
by a more potent impulse. Then, too, the breeze will fan the 
slumbering furnace-flame ; the heart will glow and burn ; 
the rapt spirit will be borne on as by wheels of fire ; and the 



11 



very task begun coldly and reluctantly, yet at the prompt- 
ing of a loyal conscience, will be finished with alacrity and 
rejoicing. Thus the hand-work becomes heart-work ; and the 
will, at first forced into action, is overborne and outspeeded 
by every power and affection that can be brought into gear- 
ing with the machinery of duty. 

Yet more : true manhood needs also to defend itself against 
the tyranny of one's pursuit or profession. Man is not an 
isolated being. He lives not, or ought not to live, for him- 
self. He is not merely an individual existence, but a child 
of God, to whom he owes fealty, adoration, love, — a mem- 
ber of society, to which he owes every office that he can 
render of helpfulness and charity. His relations to God 
and to his fellows are an inseparable part of his selfhood. 
He is no true man, who does not consecrate all that he has 
and is to his Father and to his brethren. In these sacred 
relations, none owe so much to God and man as those whom 
a superior education has fitted for what are called the liberal 
pursuits and professions, — which are neither liberal nor 
liberalizing, apart from the devout and loving spirit which 
prompts, guides, and hallows them. 

The self-centred and self-seeking scholar has no specific 
distinction from the self-centred and self-seeking ignoramus. 
His learning is not wisdom. It lies in his memory, but is 
not incorporated into his selfhood. What though he know 
the tongues of men, and of angels too ? If he have not 
charity, — love, — love to God and man, — they profit him 
nothing. The study of language is precious, as a key to 
great spiritual truths which God's providence has imbedded 
in speech, for reverent research to disinter, and thus to learn 
more of him ; as an avenue, too, by which humane sym- 
pathies may become conversant with various phases of life 
and thought, the contemplation of which may make the 
tongue or pen more fluent and eloquent for instruction and 
persuasion. Of what avail, again, is physical science, apart 



12 



from the relations, divine and human, in which it may serve 
a kindly ministry? One may know the secrets of nature, 
animate and inanimate ; the courses of the stars ; the infini- 
tesimal mysteries Which the microscope reveals ; the names 
of plants, from the cedar of Lebanon to the hyssop on the 
wall ; the intimate structure of the great globe, and its every 
fabric and tissue : and yet his mind will shrivel while he 
thinks it grows, and he will become less and less of a man 
while he imagines that he is achieving greatness, unless he 
adores while he learns, — enters into ever-closer apprehen- 
sion of Him whose " incorruptible spirit is in all things," 
and into an ever-dearer love of all the organized, sentient, in- 
telligent forms of being into which the Creator has breathed 
life, beauty, joy, from his own fulness. 

Similar considerations apply to the learned professions, so 
called. The manipulation of the human body, in its phases 
of disease and suffering, is in itself a mere mechanical avo- 
cation, not one whit more dignified, more characteristic of a 
lofty manhood, than the cleansing and repairing of a watch 
or a music-box. But it is a glorious function, worthy of 
perfected manhood, to tend, heal, and cure men's maladies 
and infirmities, when compassion guides the hand ; when the 
humane purpose hallows the physician's art or the surgeon's 
skill ; when he accepts his calling as a charge from the benefi- 
cent Father to his children in distress. 

The merely technical lawyer, who seeks his revenue from 
the strifes, misfortunes, or follies of his neighbors, dwindles 
in spirit, till he becomes the smallest, meanest being that 
claims to be called a man. But he who conscientiously 
defends the right, guards the interests of the accused as a 
sacred trust, maintains the supremacy of law as man's least 
imperfect transcript of the Divine order, spurns the tempta- 
tion to fraud and chicanery, puts on integrity as a robe, and 
righteousness as a diadem, — he achieves for himself an 
excelling manhood, and wins a good degree in the hierarchy 
of upright souls. 



13 



The preacher who preaches himself, and not Christ ; who 
aims at reputation, not evangelism ; who is not God's ora- 
cle, but the mouthpiece of public opinion ; who makes truce 
with popular sin and inveterate wrong ; who seeks the fleece, 
indeed, and " the shearer's feast," but to whom 

" The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed," — 

he not only ignores the priestly office which he seems to 
exercise, but abdicates the manhood in which alone he 
should dare to minister at the altar. But he does the work 
and holds the office of a true man, who receives his message 
lovingly from the Lord of men and angels, — who in aim 
and purpose is a fellow-worker with the Saviour in restor- 
ing the lost, consoling the grief-stricken, diffusing peace on 
earth, and maturing human spirits for the society of tlie 
redeemed. 

I have spoken of the need of fencing our manhood against 
dictation or example from without, against our own sloth or 
waywardness, against the unmanning influence of even the 
most liberal professions. Let me add, in closing, that true 
manhood, while it excludes and scorns all other limitations, 
owns the metes and bounds to its liberty established by the 
Author of our being. There is a world of meaning in what 
was, in my infancy, the first reading-lesson in the spelling- 
book which then held exclusive place in our New-England 
schools, — "No man can put off the law of God." The 
moral law has no exceptions, and no exempts. Our only 
safe liberty is within its limits ; our only safe activity is in 
the directions in which it points. Our power, in the full 
vigor of manhood, may be great and wide and lasting ; 
our influence may move crowds ; our opinion may give law 
to many feebler spirits ; our conduct may be the rule and 
pattern for a multitude : but retribution is as inevitable as 
the reflux of the ebbing tide. Of the quality of our actions 
must be our destiny. As we sow, we must reap, — if the 



14 



wind, the whirlwind ; if wayward guilt, shame and misery ; 
if the bold vices of perverted manhood, the heavier condem- 
nation of the chief of sinners. 

, This inevitable law needs to be borne in mind : for there 
are not a few in whom are the germs of genuine manhood, 
who deem it the part of manliness to scorn the dictates of 
scrupulous morality, to take the law into their own hands, 
and to defy the counsels of religion, as if her voice were 
only for the feebler members of society, or for those stricken 
with grief or age. Xever has there been a prolonged career 
of this description, on whose declining path retributive just- 
ice has not written, in appalling characters, its sentence of 
condemnation. Xever has there been such a career, which 
has not shown that its defiance was aimed at Omnipotence, 
— that its boasted freedom was but a suicidal rush against 
barriers of adamantine strength, erected by the Almighty 
between guilt and all happiness, all blessedness. 

True, manliness recognizes things as they are, and must 
of necessity be. It lives in God's universe as his, and 
under his law as his. It consecrates its entire energy to 
Him from whom it came, and to whom it must be ever 
amenable. If there be a God, nothing is so manly as to 
own his presence and providence, and to dare — whatever 
hinderances there may be — to do his will, and obey his 
commandments. If there be a Saviour, who became mortal 
that he might endow us with immortality, nothing is so 
manly as to confess him openly, to keep his whole charge, 
and to fulfil every behest of that love of his which was 
stronger than death. If there be a life beyond the grave, 
and if the complexion of that life be determined by our 
character and conduct here, nothing is so manly as to mark 
with solemn deliberation whither the several life-paths lead, 
and to enter on no path on which we are not willing that 
death should find us, and eternity lead us on. 

My friends of the graduating Class, I trust that these 



15 



counsels will not seem inappropriate, as you pass from re- 
straint and tutelage, to be henceforward, under God, your 
own masters. I can offer for you no better wish, no more 
hearty prayer, than that you show yourselves men. This 
the University claims of you, if her discipline have been of 
any worth. This your age and your country need of you, 
and of all who have enjoyed like culture. This your several 
professions will demand of you, if you would honor them, 
and be honored in them. This God requires of you, — 
that you hallow to his praise, and exercise in his service, the 
manhood in which you bear his image ; for " the Father 
seeketh such to worship him." 

I wish that I could charge my words with the fervent 
benediction for you which is in my heart. May God 
Almighty lead you in every way of his commandments, de- 
fend you from evil, make you his ministers of blessing in 
the several spheres of duty to which his providence shall 
call you ! May Jesus Christ — the only sure corner-stone 
of your life-edifice for time and for eternity — inspire you 
with his strength, and breathe into your souls his peace ! 
May you so own him on earth, that he shall own you at the 
solemn judgment-seat ! May you so follow him here, that 
you shall be his followers in heaven and for ever ! 



BACCALAUREATE HYMN 



OF THE 



CLASS OF 1867. 



BY FRANK P. STEARNS. 



I. 

Thy love, O Lord, be with us now, 
Thy lamp of life light up our way ; 

And bear thou witness to the vow 

For truth and right we make this day. 

II. 

Within us burns a holy zeal, 

Within us stirs the holy thought, 

That each good impulse we now feel 
Hereafter shall in deed be wrought. 

III. 

Crusaders in each noble cause, 

Pursue we never selfish end ; 
Obeying thine eternal laws, 
The past by future to amend. 

IV. 

Thy hope support, thy spirit guide, 
Thy faith maintain our courage still : 

In traversing life's restless tide. 
Be thine our mission to fulfil. 



CLASS-DAY EXERCISES, 



Juke 21, 1867. 



X^tX of €^tXtXBtB. 



I. 

r H 2 £ r. 



By rev. a. p. PEABODY, D.D. 



II. 

P u s i t. 

in. 

# r a t i ir. 

By JOHN EDWARDS LEONARD, 

of West Chester, Pa. 

IV. 

Music. 



V. 

By CHARLES SIBLEY GAGE, 
of Concord, N.H. 

VI. 

By EDWARD JACKSON LOWELL, 

of Boston. 



CLASS OEATION. 



THERE is a feeling of pleasure which every one must 
have experienced, in being able to link the various 
periods of our lives with the great events of our country's 
history. In these national landmarks, our college course 
happens to be peculiarly fortunate. At the period when we 
assembled here, in July, 1863, the smoke was just clearing 
away from the battle-fields of Gettysburg. The cannon of 
Meade had thundered forth the doom of the great rebellion. 
The Marathon, the Poitiers, the Waterloo of the war had been 
fought and won. And the great North drew a long sigh of 
relief ; for God had issued his inevitable fiat in favor of the 
good destinies of the republic. During the second term 
of our Sophomore year came the glorious end itself. The 
next harvest gleamed golden to the old soldier's scythe ; the 
oppressed were set free, and the homes along the Cumber- 
land and the cabins of the Carolinas hailed with blinding 
tears the delivering banner of their country. And now, as we 
are about to leave these halls, the last vestiges of that sad 
contest are about being wiped away. Time has well-nigh 
healed the wounds of the sword. The curtain is just falling 
upon the last act of the bloody drama. The Southern 
people are joining hands with us in the good work of res- 



20 



toration. May God be with them, and give them patience 
and wisdom ! 

Yes : in spite of the predictions of the Old World's mon- 
archs, the dread lessons of history, the misgivings of states- 
men, peace has come, not more in name than in reality. 
The sublime thread begun at Gettysburg has woven its 
woof into the grandest banner of the world's history, — a 
banner foremost in civilization as well as in power, its 
bright stars not more the symbols of equal States than the 
beacon lights of human liberty. Happy, thrice happy, 
the retrospect ! Our college morning saw the nation's good 
angel come down, and send a bright ray of hope through the 
dark clouds ; our noon saw those clouds breaking and van- 
ishing ; our evening beholds the perfect day, deep-blue with 
light and promise of the future. Cheering, thrice cheer- 
ing, the prospect ! No richer heritage could deck the path 
that lies before us. As our country is, so are her children 
also. If our country's prospects are gloomy, can ours be 
bright ? If our country mourns, can we rejoice ? Oh, no ! 
her joy is our joy, and her sorrow is our sorrow. Thank 
God ! her present weal can swell the gladness of our happy 
Class Day. 

Our Class Day ! — that day of all others, which we have 
longed for and painted and dreamed upon, since first we 
thought of college. Our Class Day ! which childlike fancy, 
looking up the long vista of years, used to set forth as the 
summit of our existence ; a radiant picture which boyhood 
softened and mellowed, but did not render less fair or less 
beautiful. Our Class Day ! which early, ambitious youth 
pencilled in the gorgeous colors of gathering fame and 
fortune, of school-days brightly ended, and life brightly 
begun. Our Class Day! which later friendships and as- 
sociations have rendered a day of the heart, — a day when 
the gayest merriment is blended with the deepest and the 
purest sadness. 



21 



How much to make us glad ! The great gala throng ; the 
music, the feast, the dance ; the thought, ever proud and 
inspiriting, of future freedom, — all combine to cheer and en- 
liven us. No more shall that piercing, punctual bell break 
in upon " tired nature's sweet restorer ! " No more shall it 
mercilessly summon us from the half-finished game or the 
placid river ! No more to be convinced of Mr. Mill's hope- 
less lunacy, of the utter and " gratuitous " absurdity of 
Fichte's "blind chain," and Spinoza's "fluttering leaf"! 
No more to shudder at the thought of tracing our ultimate 
ancestry back to an altered grain of sand upon the seashore ! 
No more to puzzle our brains, in a vain endeavor to solve 
that empiric formula upon the blackboard, — that empiric 
formula, never before promulgated, — that wonderful em- 
piric formula, for ascertaining the number of a Congress ! 
No more to wander every day over vast uncertain stretches 
of metaphysics ! No more to have forced upon our tender 
minds that strange and fearful fact, — a fact that would 
make old Aristotle turn in his coffin,- — " Some things are 
not some things " ! 

These, indeed, are pleasant reflections. But we have other 
and profounder reasons for congratulation. To-day our 
fathers and mothers and kindred are here, — they whose 
approval is all in all to us. Our teachers, whose labor has 
ever been our benefit, still show us that their kindness is 
not yet exhausted. Distinguished gentlemen have honored 
us with their presence. And last, yet first, the ladies, 
whom it is our eternal duty, as well as our eternal privilege, 
to go to see, have for once (can we ever repay them ?) 
waived their rights, and come to see us. And if, at the close 
of the day, we have won their smiles, is not our measure of 
felicity complete ? Surely this is a gala-day. 

No, not altogether a gala-day. That last scene around 
the old tree, this evening, is not the empty, foolish form, 
that some would think it. If it be a weakness, it is a weak- 



22 



ness that is born of friendship and love ; and its boisterous 
expression springs from the purest and holiest fountains of 
our nature. There are partings which cannot find their 
expression in the passing grasp of the hand, feelings so 
strong that they cannot be crushed, ties so sacred and so 
firmly wrought that the heart bleeds when they are broken. 
Such times are, indeed, of rare occurrence ; and it is their 
very rarity that gives them their intensity. Those of us 
who left a distant home, to begin our collegiate education, 
know what I mean. How the new life, that was opening 
before us, brought back the old I The homestead, the 
hearthstone, the long winter evenings, the summer merry- 
makings, — oh, who could part with those hallowed scenes, 
without living them in memory once more? Or who, 
as he sees them fading away, his mother's kisses still 
upon his cheek, and his father's words of manly good-by 
still ringing in his ears, will not feel a mighty grief come 
over him, that so fair a portion of his life has passed for 
ever ? 

So the shadows that will gather to-night upon this sunny 
day must find their counterpart within our hearts. We 
have grown stronger and sterner since we wept over child- 
hood's losses, and sighed for joys of our early homes ; but 
thank Heaven ! our sympathies, our respect for old asso- 
ciations, have not been weakened by age, or lost amid the 
prospects of the future. 

I know of no stronger bond, of none which is later for- 
gotten, than that which binds the student to his college life. 
There is a peculiar charm that attaches to it, and fixes it 
even more deeply in our remembrance than any other period 
of our existence. Its sympathies, its teachings, its experi- 
ences, are such as can be gathered nowhere else ; and these 
give it a unity and an attraction that cling to it as long as 
memory lasts. What will bring light sooner to the old 
man's eye than the distant visions of those four years 



23 



whicli marked the great change between boyhood and man- 
hood ! 

I shall not attempt to recount the history of our Class. 
Its fond recollections, its rich lessons, the sacred associa- 
tions that cluster around it, are too fresh in all our minds 
to-day to need the poor assistance which my words could 
furnish. We require no landmarks yet to keep them in our 
remembrance. Not yet is the flowing river covered with 
aught that can hide its fair and placid course. Its begin- 
ning, like its end, is plainly and distinctly marked. When 
we entered college, we felt, in a measure, like new beings ; 
and the entire course has been a little life, complete in itself. 
Let us reflect aloud for a few moments, and see if we do not 
find it so. 

Do you remember those two eventful, sultry days, that 
ended in the birth of our Class ; above all, that final gather- 
ing to hear the verdict ? Was not that scene altogether 
unique to us ? The freezing indifference of a casual profes- 
sor, — the tutor's fateful look, — the gathering of the mag- 
nates in the room across the entry, — the lot, — the calling of 
the names, — the suspense, — the ghastly shadows of weeping 
families and scornful early sweethearts, and the glad moment 
of undoubted triumph at last ! Admitted to Harvard College ! 
Did we not feel a trifle taller, did we not hold our heads a 
trifle more erect, patronize our younger brothers a trifle 
more, and imagine that all the young ladies were looking at 
us, and whispering, with agitated heart, " That is the young 
Collegian ! " vanity, vanity ! verily thou hast thy reward. 
I fancy that we were not the only Freshman Class which 
learned, from a few weeks of Freshman life, that there was 
a thing or two which Freshmen did not know. For all that, 
I have not often heard graduates say that their first was 
their best and brightest year. I cannot say so much of ours ; 
yet I am sure that it was a happy, fruitful time, and it comes 
back to us radiant with flowers that can never fade. It was 



24 



then that we took different views of life ; our characters 
caught the influences which surrounded us, and our friend- 
ships were planted in that new soil which has nurtured them 
so kindly. Some honored classmates left us then. Alas, 
poor fellows ! Their delicately colored meerschaums could 
not keep them with us. Perhaps their recitation marks were 
low ; but they stood high on the scale of our affections, and 
to-day let us try to believe that they are all with us once 
more. The Class Day of the heart demands their presence. 

We come now to the period when such a wealth of mathe- 
matics was brought to bear to keep us out of danger, but 
which rather caused us to rush, with a frantic laugh of 
despair, into still greater excesses. Our reputation, you 
know, became national : the press opened its batteries upon 
us ; the presidential election lost its interest ; and this great 
country turned its eyes from the battle in the valley of the 
Shenandoah to the battle on the stone steps of Hollis. Now 
that the smoke has all cleared away, it is amusing to think 
of the fierce stories of those times ; for surely the old fable 
of the three black crows never had a fairer illustration. 

After this, the terms flow so evenly, so smoothly, so 
calmly, that scarce a single striking event arises to disturb 
the uniformity — the pleasing uniformity — of the retrospect. 
We have become thoroughly naturalized and acclimated. 
The same tasks vex us now and then ; the same friends 
cheer and encourage us. Winter and summer, spring and 
autumn, still find us little changed, and little mindful of 
the future. The term ends, and we go home, eager and 
joyful, — joyful to be relieved for a time from study, eager 
to meet with those we love. While there, we sometimes 
speak of Cambridge as our home ; and when the vacation 
is over, if we take leave with somewhat of pain and regret, 
I am sure it is only because we think that the old home has 
not had quite its full share, and not because we love the 
new home less. And so we return, anxious to grasp our 



25 



classmates' hands once more ; and, with a touch of honest 
and not altogether boyish pride, we say that we are going 
back to Harvard. 

Ah, those were halcyon days ! I do not say that we did 
not have our periods of trouble and complaint : we should 
be, indeed, unfit to be graduates, if that were true ; but, 
surely, we deceive ourselves, if we think that these unhappy 
elements will ever enter so little into our lives again ; that 
we shall ever experience so much of ease and so little of 
struggle, so little of cloud and so much of sunshine. No : 
we enter a rougher clime to-day, where we must rely more 
upon ourselves, and where we must draw our cloaks higher 
and closer about us, if we would keep out the rough storms 
that will meet us on our way. 

Not the least trying change which we shall have to un- 
dergo is the loss of constant intercourse with our staunch 
college friends. The attachments of students are proverbial. 
A large number of young men are thrown together, of nearly 
the same age, pursuing the same course of study, and hav- 
ing, in a good degree, the same end in view. Surely, if one 
can find congenial spirits anywhere, he can find them under 
such circumstances as these. The conditions of friendship 
are, youth, purity, and generosity. The middle-aged and 
the old do, indeed, sometimes become sincerely attached to 
each other ; but I have never heard of one beautiful and 
noble intimacy, which did not date its origin from early 
years. Friends must not merely associate : they must grow 
together ; but the mature trees of the forest never come thus 
to blend and intertwine with each other. So, too, friendship 
must not be tinctured with worldly considerations. " Busi- 
ness relationship " has no right to that holy name. It comes 
altogether from the heart, — the pure, impulsive heart ; and 
in college it finds its surest, truest mould. Hapless is he 
who allows those golden days to pass, and yet finds no souls 
whose sympathy he can claim as his own, none whom he 



26 



can call by that one sacred word, ^' friend." With ns, I can 
safely say, there are none such. We all have our friends, 
— true, honest, devoted. Most probably, during the rest of 
our lives, we shall never find any others who can be as much 
to us as they are. Shall we ever forget them ? Shall those 
fires ever die out which are so warm to-day ? Shall we not 
rather prove that — 

" Time but addeth fresh colors to a fast 
Friend, which neither heat nor misery 
Nor place nor destiny can alter or 
Diminish. Oh, friendship ! of all things the 
Most rare, and therefore most rare because most 
Excellent ; whose comforts in misery 
Are always sweet, and whose counsels in 
Prosperity are ever fortunate." 

» 

Yes : we shall miss these friends even more than we ima- 
gine ; and this loss may help us to experience some of the 
disadvantages of a college course. I fully believe that there 
are a very few of these, and that they are almost lost in 
the immensity of its benefits ; yet I am sure there are a few, 
and I shall venture to suggest one or two of them. In the 
first place, is there any thing in a college course which has 
a tendency to unfit us for the theatre of real life ? Unques- 
tionably, I think, we are deficient in those attainments which 
go to make up self-relying individual citizens. Heretofore 
we have never been called upon to do any thing for ourselves. 
We are, on an average, twenty-two years, and many of us 
have never earned a single dollar. In the great science of 
self-support, we have scarcely taken a lesson. True, we 
have our education ; but we have not yet learned how to 
apply it, and the working of a machine is often more diffi- 
cult than its construction. Besides, there is, in the great 
majority of students, a certain lack of individuality, which 
arises from the fact that they have nearly always had their 
duties marked out for them. A groovelike course of con- 



27 



duct is thus engendered, which one often finds it very diffi- 
cult to change. This early training, or lack of training, has 
caused a vast deal of mortification among expectant gradu- 
ates. May WE not forget, that the young man behind the 
counter, just promoted from errand-boy, has already achieved 
honors in a very difficult college, in which we are not yet 
Freshmen ! 

Passing over our countless and well-known advantages, 
and postponing the great standing question of college re- 
form, — for one day only, — I come to the subject which is 
of paramount importance to us. Though it is pleasant to 
dwell upon the past, — most of all when it is such a past as 
our college course has been, — • yet duty calls us to the 
future, and bids us think, not so much of what we have done, 
as of what we shall do. Our school-days are ended ; and the 
stern question comes home to us, " What next ? " Doubt- 
less we have all had our dreams of the future : we must 
now begin to change those dreams into realities. And, first, 
it behooves to weigh well our natural abilities and adapta- 
tions, to consider our resources, consult our elders, and per- 
fect our plans of life. A little error now may lead us to lose 
altogether the path for which nature intended us. A ridge- 
tile cottage in Derbyshire determines whether the rain that 
falls from Heaven shall be directed to the Xorthern Ocean or 
the Atlantic. For each one of us there is a sphere, in which 
honor and distinction can be won. A proper degree of self- 
examination cannot fail to discover it to us. And as the 
wise sculptor ponders long and well upon his design, and 
builds a careful model of clay before he begins to chisel the 
statue from the marble ; so let us build a model of life deep 
in our minds, before we begin to hew out the enduring form 
of our future fortunes. This done, strict, persevering toil 
will do the rest. He who chooses his vocation with fore- 
thought, and pursues it with energy, cannot fail of success. 
" Whatsoever man will do, that he shall do." Most of all 



28 



will the blows tell when they are directed ever upon the self- 
same spot. You all remember how, when army after army 
melted away before Richmond, the victims of timid, vacilla- 
ting policy, the nation's eyes were turned at last towards him 
who had never made a retreat or lost a battle. Yes : better 
far and more inspiring than all the brilliant exploits of more 
brilliant men was the stern resolution and decision, the 
unflinching tenacity of purpose, and the grim steadiness of 
execution, that marked the career of General Grant. He 
called his tried leaders around him, and formed the plan of 
a campaign, the safest and best, because it was the simplest. 
And then he uttered those plain, historic, proverbial words, 
— "I will fight it out on this line." And the armies of the 
republic gathered about the doomed city with a feeling that 
knew no doubt ; for every veteran felt, from that day, that 
the plains of Virginia must be the scene of his glory or his 
grave. The politician, noisy and meddlesome, strove to 
change the base. " On this line," said Grant. The country, 
anxious and well-nigh exhausted, began to murmur, and 
begged for an advance. And the reply came up, calm and 
unchanged, yet full of hope, and sending a thrill of confi- 
dence through every patriot's breast, — "I will fight it out 
on this line." And be did not, could not, fail. Such leader 
never led his soldiers to defeat. So, God willing, let it be 
with us. When the fears of the weak-hearted and the scorn 
of the jealous seek to turn us from a righteous course ; when 
the dark clouds of despondency gather about us, and the 
strongholds of adversity bar our progress, — let us not kiss 
the dust, and miserably end a miserable career ; but rather, 
measuring our strength once more, and culling fresh wisdom 
from each new mishap, let us say, each one of us, " I will 
fight it out on this line." And "wq shall not, cannot, fail. 
God holds such sturdy toilers in the hollow of his hand. 

Show me the young man in the commercial house, who 
attends every day to the very letter of his duties ; who makes 



29 



himself known by his strict honesty and sobriety ; who reads 
every book upon the laws of trade, and weighs and ponders 
over all its curious warnings, — and I will show you another 
Astor. Show me the young engineer who scorns to remain 
always a mere hireling automaton ; who sees in existing in- 
ventions the possibility of others ; who ascends from applica- 
tions to principles, and strives again and again to descend 
with other applications of his own, — and I will show you 
another Fulton. Show me the young lawyer who sees in 
his profession another and a nobler field than the mere gain- 
ing of a livelihood ; who catches the inspiration of his coun- 
try's greatness, and devotes his life to her service ; who 
carries a selection of Burke in his pocket, and studies it 
night and day ; who prepares himself for his work by every 
means which God has placed within his reach, — and I will 
show you another Webster. He who believes that he cannot 
be great, shows equal folly with the flattered boy who be- 
lieves that he cannot help being great. Natural inability 
and natural genius are alike the plea of the sluggard, the 
siren voices that have lost the world many a fair and noble 
name. A life of earnest, conscientious toil is the only one 
that can satisfy the highest wants of man's nature, — the 
only one that can bring true and lasting success. I am 
aware that this maxim is not a new one. Indeed, it is as 
old as experience ; and this is why I have suggested it as a 
leading principle of our future conduct. In selecting a suit 
of armor with which the young knight might fight his bat- 
tles, he would be an ungrateful friend, indeed, who would 
offer some poor, untried construction of his own, rather than 
the sure metal which had been tried again and again in the 
crucial test, and found not wanting. 

I am aware that t]je bravest spirit is sometimes over- 
thrown, that the noblest efforts sometimes appear to fail. 
But such failures are seldom without their praise and appre- 
ciation. A defeat may be even more grand and glorious 



30 



than a victory. The retreat from Moscow always seemed to 
me like Ney's proudest triumph. It is said, that, when the 
French army came at length to the border, the last rear-guard 
had melted away, and the great marshal was left alone. But 
he scorned to think of his own safety, while a single French- 
man was in danger. So with his broken sword in his hand, 
covered with powder and gore, the bullets of the Cossacks 
flying around him, his face to the foe, as it had always been, 
he marched backwards across the bridge, — the last man 
of the last rear-guard. No wonder the Russian general 
thanked God that the hero's life had been spared. There is 
something that compels respect in a heart that bears itself 
thus bravely. And what successful achievement ever won 
our admiration more than the sinking of the old " Cumber- 
land," — every soul on board firm and true to the last, every 
sail close furled and every rope drawn taut, every gun 
shotted to the tip, until it sank beneath the sea, tlie stars 
and stripes at the mainmast-top ? Oh ! it was something 
more than prophecy that led our great poet to exclaim, — 

" Ho, brave hearts that went down in the seas ! 
Ye are at peace in the troubled stream ; 
Ho, brave land, with hearts hke these ! 
Thy flag, that was rent in twain, 
Shall be one again, 
And without a seam." 

But, while failure does not always bring disgrace, with us 
failure can find its least possible palliation. Among the 
young men of our own age, very few have brighter opportu- 
nities than we. Since so much time and expense have been 
bestowed upon education, the presumption is, that we shall 
do something and be something. Nor will the world grudge 
us wliatever degree of success we may fairly achieve. So 
far from that being the case, it is rathpr predisposed in our 
favor. 

" The fault, then, is not in our stars, 
But in ourselves, if we are underlings." 



31 



Most of all is this true of us as Americans. A fairer field 
than this nation affords for the application of merit, God 
never gave to man. That she is destined, ere long, to play 
the leading part in the world's politics, can scarcely admit 
of a doubt. The old obstacles, which barred her progress 
and threatened her overthrow, have been wiped away. Sec- 
tional differences are happily vanishing. A party bounded 
by degrees of latitude is henceforth impossible. Hereafter, 
we shall know no North, no South, no East, no West, but, 
side by side and hand in hand, go forward in the develop- 
ment of our national strength and prosperity. The march 
of our empire seems destined to be bounded only by the 
shores of the continent : for as surely as the past teaches 
any thing does it teach the future vastness and grandeur 
of this republic ; not through pieces of conquered territory 
scattered all over the face of the earth, a source of weak- 
ness rather than of power, but through the gradual exten- 
sion of our borders by purchase and peaceable annexation. 
Our recent acquisition of Russian America cannot long be 
separated from us by the wedge that lies between. Even 
conservative England is too shrewd long to oppose the plain 
workings of destiny. As for unhappy Mexico, she is already 
carved out into happy States. 

The contemplation of our country's greatness is certainly 
enough to fill us with all the vigor and enthusiasm which 
patriotism is capable of inspiring. But it seems to me that 
there is another and even stronger reason for congratula- 
tion. For my own part, I love my country most, not because 
of her extent and supremacy; not because her flag floats 
over every sea, and her name is a tower of strength through- 
out every land ; nor yet because she seems destined one day 
to rule the world,— ^ but because of her unrivalled free insti- 
tutions ; because she leads the vanguard of human civili- 
zation ; because her example is doing so much for the 
advancement of true religion ; because the pure air of her 



32 



perfect freedom nourishes the growth of self-made and high- 
minded citizens ; because here, if anywhere, true greatness 
can be developed. 

True greatness is but another name for true philanthropy ; 
and I cannot but believe that he is really the greatest man 
who has done most to ameliorate and advance the condition 
of his kind. Is not Grod just ? and is it not from losing 
sight of this fact that one often finds his success closely 
dogged by his misery ? Who envies the monarch on his 
throne, built over the prostrate form of liberty ? Who 
envies the minister of state, who has purchased position 
through the barter of his principles ? Who envies the 
scheming contractor, whose plenty has been taken from 
the mouths of a starving soldiery ; or his greater folly when 
he seeks to drown his guilt in wine and fashion and gilded 
palaces ? Better far that such as these had no ambition ; 
better far that they toiled in poverty for their daily bread, 
than that worldly prosperity should have led them into 
moral bankruptcy and ruin. Too late they discover that it 
is one thing to be what the world calls successful, and an- 
other to be great ; that success may spring from avarice and 
pride, may be the mere parade of conscious guilt, goading its 
possessor to remorse and dissipation : but that greatness is 
cast in the mould of purity and charity ; is measured by the 
gratitude it earns ; is cherished in the hearts of the fatherless, 
and hallowed in the thanksgiving of the oppressed ; is hon- 
ored alike by the Clnnstian and the patriot ; is a fit example 
to youth, and a joy to old age ; is a blessing to others, and 
consolation to itself. 

In men of this ideal stamp, our country has been more 
than fortunate. They have been nourished by her soil, and 
encouraged by her people. There is one name among them 
which I cannot pass over in silence, — a name which we, in 
common with our University and our whole Union, must 
for ever honor and respect. Who will say that history 



33 



records a brighter reputation, or that mankind ever paid 
homage to a nobler citizen ? Need I tell you that I refer to 
our great benefactor, George Peabody ? 

Oh, what can equal the satisfaction of the old man who 
looks back upon a life spent in charitable works, who sees the 
trees of benevolence which he has planted blooming around 
him, and who, as he draws nearer and nearer the tomb, 
hears more and more distinctly the voice of the Father say- 
ing : *' Well done, good and faithful servant ! " Such men live 
not alone in the mouths, but in the hearts, of posterity. 
They are personified in their good works, and seem never to 
be gone from us. Just as the light of the fixed stars shines 
on for countless ages after the stars themselves are annihi- 
lated, so, when men like George Peabody die, their light 
shines on as brightly as ever, and we never realize that they 
are not with us. 

Our lives are as yet in our hands. We can be what we 
will, — the miserable misanthrope, the schemer, the nobody, 
the philanthropist. We cannot afford to look about us, and 
watch for some caravan moving to El Dorado ; we cannot 
afford to say, " There is time enough ; " least of all can 
we afford to distrust our abilities before we have given 
them a trial. Let us rather feel, that he, who is in the lists 
of life before us, must sharpen his lance by the midnight 
lamp, must find his girdle about him and his foot in the 
stirrup befbre the herald calls the morn. And when, after 
long journeys made and stern battles fought, we gather to- 
gether in future years, let us bring, each one of us, some 
worthy tribute- to our Class, some work accomplished, 
some generous act performed, that, as we join hands once 
more in " Auld Lang Syne," we may fulfil the true rela- 
tionship of students, equals all, rejoicing in each other's 
joy, anxious for each other's welfare, proud of each oth- 
er's success. And at last, when these worn-out bodies seek 
their kindred dust, and we come to the portals of the Great 

5 



34 



World beyond the tomb, may we be in spirit, not weary and 
heavy laden, but strong and fresh and vigorous, happy in 
our own integrity, blessed in our good deeds, cheered by the 
approval of our Alma Mater, our Country, and our God ! 



POEM. 



WITHIN those regions where the passions reign, 
Between the rival realms of Joy and Pain, 
There lies a border land, to which our way 
Hath led us fellow-travellers to-day. 
Into this valley, from the margin hills, 
There falls a thin and amber mist, that fills 
With limpid light the aureate atmosphere 
Of the one endless autumn of its year. 
Ever is heard the rustling sound of sheaves ; 
And, ever circling down, the withered leaves 
That tell of life that's fled, a spring that's past. 
Cover the ground with heaps that gather fast. 
But mild Regret in pensive reverie lies, 
And counts them fall with hesitating eyes. 
That first would weep, and then again would smile. 
And Memory, her sister, all the while, 
In russet stole and sober colors dressed. 
With busy hands and feet that never rest. 
Wanders about, scarce knowing which to choose, 
So precious all, so manifold their hues. 

The friendly faces that surround us here, 

The sound of music falling on the ear. 

The songs, the feast, the flowers, the merry glance 

Of maidens mingling in the mazy dance. 

Can scarce detain our thoughts that will not stay, 

But ever backward to those regions stray. 



36 



No stratagems like these deceive the heart, 
As nears the hurrying hour that we must part 
For evermore from each familiar place, 
Decked for farewell with thrice its wonted grace. 

When once we go, there's little left behind, 
That those who stay should bear us long in mind. 
They'll see us faintly soon, as through a fog, 
Drawn up in lines in some old catalogue. 
Some dim tradition of our foot-ball fight 
May be rehearsed upon a Monday night. 
The listening group will murmur out our praise, 
And mourn perchance their more degenerate days. 
A few more years, and then tradition goes : 
The brook remains, the water ever flows. 

On yonder walls the newly planted vine 
Awhile alone shall grow, then intertwine • 
In kindly spirit with the others there. 
The passing years no monument will spare. 
Where'er we write our names, alike in vain 
On oaken beam or fragile window-pane. 
They will not last, or, lasting, tell no more 
Than print of feet upon the well-worn floor. 

But, though forgotten, we shall not forget 
These loved and long-accustomed scenes, nor yet 
The pleasures which have fallen to our share 
We may not hope to meet with other where. 
And, least of all, that intercourse most dear 
Which we have had with one another here : 
For in this calm beginning of our life. 
This peaceful prelude to the after-strife. 
Some kindly spirit, some mysterious power, 
Has bound us closer still with every hour ; 
And never will her friendly office stay. 
Until the souls she works with shall decay. 

But, if the half that cynics say be true. 
When the wide world is opened to our view, 



37 



We shall not find it, like the small world here, 
Free, open-hearted, trusting, and sincere. 
'Twill be at best a busy market-place, 
Where men but nod to each familiar face ; 
Where the great crowd are strangers, and the rest 
Partners in trade, acquaintances at best. 
But we a fortune happier far shall know, 
When forth into the field of toil we go. 
Bound fast together by the search for truth. 
Our souls have welded in the heat of youth ; 
And, if the world be cold, its very chill 
Will make the union only stronger still. 

English or Latin hath no words, nor Greek, 
Of such divine relationship to speak. 
In friend is all of classmate, all of chum : 
These are but parts, and who can tell the sum? 
Three de.arest unions, — saving one of course ; 
Yet ours are three, that know of no divorce. 

The future years may be to us most kind. 

Yet in them all we never more shall find 

Those youthful pleasures which are ending now. 

Age will not grant, nor circumstance allow. 

Meetings like those which marked the Freshman year ; 

When in hot haste, oppressed with double fear 

Of enemies who " haze" and those who " spot," 

We met in secret to match plot with plot. 

While we resolved, and threatening speeches made. 

And dreadful plans of dire abduction laid ; 

While one was telling of his many wrongs. 

Of forced debates, obligatory songs, — 

A sudden crowd would every thing confuse, 

Bursting in headlong with eventful news. 

The lights go out, — a moment of suspense, 

And then we hear — excitement most intense ! 

" As they were coming by the Delta gate. 

The foe appeared in force of six or eight !- 

And doubtless going somewhere, they should say. 

It was so dark they could not tell which way." 



38 



Such startling words for instant action called. 
"With spirits high, by numbers unappalled, 
In battle line we searched the whole yard round, 
And rent the air with cheers when nobody was found. 

But those things ceased : no longer neophytes, 
We passed in sweet security our nights 
In friendly converse round the cheerful fire, 
Which ever calls to life the heart's desire 
To other hearts its secrets to express, 
To other hearts its longings to confess, 
And, gaining sympathy, to sympathize. 
The gloomy door reserve wide open flies ; 
The temple's inmost, holiest shrine is shown ; 
We know each other as we would be known. 
The hours go by amid the strife of wit 
Which has no malice to envenom it ; 
With pleasant story and with olden song 
That lives with us, elsewhere forgotten long, — 
Until at last there comes the parting glass, 
"And, piping homeward, jocundly we pass." 

And when the snow departs, and gentle Spring, 

With winds from south of blossoms whispering. 

Calls at each window with a cheerful voice, 

" Open : I've come again ! Rejoice ! rejoice ! " 

We hear the summons, and with haste obey. 

Upon our faces her soft breezes play. 

And, with sweet prophecy of joys in store. 

Blow off the winter's dust from bat and oar. 

When the warm showers have clothed the yard in green, 

And all the mazy walks are dry between. 

Blissful the musings in the window-seat. 

Watching the while the dial shades retreat 

Through the long hours of every sunny day ; 

And, from the fellows on the field at play, 

The sharp, quick ring of bat, the captain's call. 

The loud applause that notes the well-caught ball. 

Salute our ears, nor leave us doubting long 

To whom the silver trophy shall belong. 



39 



Pleasant the waitings on the river-shore 

At early twilight, when the sun no more 

Drove us to shelter with his blazing heat, 

But, where the western sky and mountains meet 

In splendor dying, with his latest beam 

Tinted with purple meadow-land and stream, — 

Waiting and watching till the sudden flash 

Of water dropping from the blades of ash 

Far down beneath the bridge breaks on our view. 

With long and easy stroke, the stalwart crew, 

Their broad backs bending in most perfect time, 

Making their oar-locks to the motion chime. 

Cut through the water as the bird through air, 

That doth some lover's hasty missive bear. 

Oh, happy visions of all-perfect days ! 
E'en now the glory of the golden haze 
That Time pours o'er the unreturning past 
Around thy many forms is gathering fast. 
Once more its magic influence we feel 
O'er all our thoughts and saddened fancies steal. 
With power beyond control it makes us yearn 
With grief for that which never can return. 
Yet makes us happy that it once hath been. 
And friends have left us who were with us then. 
Beloved by all, with merry hearts and true, — 
Search for their equals, ye will find but few. 
We saw them oiF with grasp of hand and cheers, 
And said, " We'll meet you in the after-years." 
And others left us, but no cheers were heard ; 
We only murmured the thrice-spoken word, 
And said, " Sometime we'll join your crescent band 
That's gazing backward from the after-land. 
When comes the messenger that for you came. 
With scythe and glass and visage just the same, 
With blustering haste and self-important din, 
Knocks at the door, nor waits to hear " Come in." 



40 

When Memory is looking back, 

Some tedious hour beguiling, 
Although too oft her face is sad, 

We sometimes see her smiling. 
Then, in her store of gathered wealth, 

The trinkets least worth prizing 
She looks upon with merry eye. 

The better things despising. 

The darkest building in the yard 

At least has one side sunny ; 
Professors the most dignified 

Have yet at times been funny ; 
The bitterest draughts we've tasted here. 

Cooked up by Melancholy, 
Have had some condiment of jest 

To be fished out by Folly ! 

And if we, now that " school is done," 

Feel more than ever rebels. 
And, turning ere we leave, throw back 

A harmless shower of pebbles. 
We but abuse the things we love. 

Then love them all the better : 
The spirit of our parting words 

Is kindlier than the letter. 

In yonder grim, historic room, 

That time might fly the faster. 
How oft we've scanned with curious eye 

Each countenance of plaster ! 
And lately how Ave mused upon 

The emptiness of glory. 
When Socrates was pointed out 

As " bust of Mr. Story ! " 

There some recited at great length, 

Who very little knew. 
With guarded generalities, 

" That miglit be false or true ; " 



41 

While others of a different style, 
Whose answers were laconic, 

So constantly forgot their dates, 
Their malady was chronic. 

And Logic gave us no relief, — 

Our heads were split with wedges ; 
In its own paths thought lost itself, 

Snared in sophistic hedges. 
And yet we felt rewarded well. 

When it became apparent. 
The poet's words were really true, 

That " Barbara Celare7it." 

The many charms of argument 

Held us but for a season ; 
We tore ourselves away, perhaps 

Without sufficient reason. 
Then, for a month, our faculties 

In search of cause enlisted. 
And found at last, much to our joy. 

That no such thing existed. 

That little fluttering " aspen leaf 

Stirred on its parent bough " 
Much oftener than the theory 

Could possibly allow. 
Poor, fated thing ! with no free-will, 

Perplexed the whole week through. 
Each day 'twas shaking in advance, 

Each day in the review ! 

When Harvard Hall this afternoon 

Is trembling with the dancing. 
And music with its sorcery 

Is every soul entrancing, — 
If there comes back a moment's thought 

Of an examination, 
'Twill serve but to complete our bliss 

And spiritual elation. 
6 



42 

For giant cares that troubled us, 

The bravest hearts unnerving, 
Touched by the wand of present joy, 

Are vassals for our serving. 
We let them go : o'er us no more 

They have the power of harming ; 
No doubt to those we leave behind 

They still will be alarming. 



But all the pleasures and the sports we knew 

Were but the floAvers that by the wayside grew ; 

And some we picked to cheer us on the way, 

But left the most : we could not long delay. 

The games, companions, and the pleasant talk, 

Were not the purpose of this ended walk ; 

For at the end there lay a greater prize, 

And on the way the useful exercise. 

Our tasks, our toils, a wondrous change have wrought 

In powers of mind, and in the range of thought. 

Wider the prospect far that greets us now 

Than the low valleys of our homes allow ; 

And we no longer deem that spot of earth 

Its central one, because our place of birth. 

A short experience the truth instils, 

That other people live beyond the hills. 

And, in our studies, time like space expands. 

We love, not only men of other lands. 

But those as well, who, born far in the past. 

So lived that even now their life doth last. 

Men live together, whatsoe'er their aj^e : 

The centuries cannot their thoughts encage. 

Nor the broad gulfs of intervening time 

Bar Past and Present from their talk sublime. 

We're weak alone : from out the past we need 

The strengthening influence of each golden deed, 

Paeans of Right victorious over Wrong, 

Triumphant echoes of the martyr's song. 

That we our lives may model after those 

Who taught life's noblest lesson at its close. 



43 



O bright exemplars ! sparks of fire divine ! 
Still for our guidance from afar ye shine, 
And our base souls in your pure flames refine. 

Though some dark crimes the page of history bears, 
The following furies and avenging cares 
In sadder accents the same lesson give, 
And teaching us how not, teach how, to live. 

The record tells us, that the race of man. 
In every age since first the world began. 
Have only been blind laborers of a day. 
Under the one all-planning Master's sway ; 
Reaping the harvests that their sires have sown, 
And scattering seed for harvesters unknown ; 
Toiling that knowledge with the years may grow. 
Like many a river that begins its flow 
A narrow streamlet in some savage land. 
But, widening ever as it nears the strand. 
Kisses the skirts of cities by its side. 
And bears their commerce on its swelling tide. 
The end for which men live they cannot see ; 
But still they hope that Art will perfect be. 
Science complete upon some future day. 
For which they labor to prepare the way. 
Each generation adding more and more, 
And using well the long-transmitted store. 
Is all the past, and of the future part, — 
One life-throb of the universal heart ! 
The actors come and go: their actions stay. 
And good and evil work their like for aye ; 
Like water-rings that never reach a shore, 
Or whispered words that echo evermore. 

So taught us Clio. Her historic scroll. 
Rich with the names of each heroic soul, 
Each lover of his race the world has known. 
Is not yet full, but has room for our own. 
The Muse's pen awaits : if she deny. 
With us, and us alone, the blame must lie. 



44 



There Is a book that man did never write, 

And one that he too seldom reads aright ; 

But, if he catch but part the Author's sense, 

Is heavenward drawn by its sweet influence, — 

A precious book that's in no market sold. 

And infinite, though bound in blue and gold. 

The book is Nature ; and the sages dead 

Have various meanings in its pages read. 

Some studied long, and much, yet nothing knew : 

The writing hid the Writer from their view. 

Presumptuous, vain, and in false wisdom wise, 

They needed that from which the true doth rise ; 

For ignorance alone brings truth to light. 

As stars are only seen when it is night. 

We've read their works, their unsubstantial dreams. 

Filled with proud thought ; and more and more it seems 

Of all who study happiest is he 

Who in the book can the great Author see. 

Whether from words the true sense he divines. 

Or with the eye of faith reads God between the lines. 

With eyes uplifted to those crystal spheres, 

Whose music low sometimes he thinks he hears, 

The student watches the triumphal march 

Of starry hosts across the heavenly arch : 

Their well-trimmed torches, ceasing not to burn, 

Vanish each night, and still each night return. 

The planets, moving in harmonious law. 

Their God proclaim, and fill the soul with awe. 

Teaching a lesson ne'er to be forgot, — 

Singing each one, " He loves ; " and none, " He loves me not." 

Twined round the earth, as round the ancient rod. 
We've found a ciphered message of our God, 
Older than that which came from Palestine ; 
Fantastic print of vegetation green. 
With flowers illumined in far brighter hues 
Than mediaeval monks were wont to use. 
And underneath, the deep foundations hoar, 
Divine palimpsests written o'er and o'er, 



45 



By water left or by the fire upborne, 
Bear the rock-record of Creation's morn. 

Fabric of beauty ! from its every part 

A voice invites to Science and to Art : 

And though the road that leads to each be long, 

With clouds obscure, v^ith branching byways wrong, 

That lure the searcher on, then turn him back, 

Baffled and weary, to the certain track ; 

Though none can reach the far-oiF goal they crave, 

But fainting by the highway find a grave, — 

Our curious hearts will ne'er be satisfied 

Until the same great journey they have tried. 

Already past the frequent-trodden ground, 

We've reached the wilds where scarce a trace is found ; 

Our guides have left us, and we start alone 

Into rich regions, unexplored, unknown. 

The talents we may have, God-given powers, 
Although a gift to us, are yet not ours. 
Nor must we use them for ourselves alone. 
The gold that's hoarded is but worthless store ; 
But he who gives it, like the king of old, 
Turns it in touching back again to gold. 

Our wisdom cometh from our brother-men. 
And to our brothers should return again. 
The lore of every age, of every land. 
They offer us with an unsparing hand ; 
And we, that of their willing offering use, 
Justly cannot a recompense refuse. 

For every man the grateful rain doth fall ; 

The sun impartial shines alike on all ; 

Round all the earth the favoring breezes blow ; 

For God nor stint nor avarice doth know. 

The sea the river feeds, and it the sea ; 

The wedded flowers refresh their priest, the bee 



46 



Through all the world so runs the generous plan ; 
And man, if he be true, must live for man. 

Let none with sighs and folded hands complain 
That fields for labor he must search in vain, 
Or move unknown in some contracted sphere, 
In petty projects wasting year by year ; 
That, had his life been fortunately cast 
In some heroic epoch of the past. 
Some happy lot or unexpected chance. 
Some tidal wave of favoring circumstance, 
Had borne him onward to a noble deed. 
Worthy the martyr's crown, the hero's meed. 
For words like those did never hero speak, 
Or in such vain excuse a refuge seek, 
But in his present acted well his part, 
With modest bearing and courageous heart. 

Never did light from out the future shine 

So rich with hope, with promise so benign 

To cheer ambition on its upward way. 

As that which on our senses breaks to-day. 

Our country is the source from whence it streams : 

At last responsive to its founders' dreams, 

Fresh from the bath of blood, to Freedom true. 

In purer garb it takes its start anew. 

The wayward States stand waiting to return. 

And for the ancient brotherhood they yearn, 

Nor long shall be denied ; but from above 

The kindly spirit of Fraternal Love, 

That in the heavenly host is held most dear. 

With friendly haste her downward course shall steer. 

The victors' hearts from bonds of hate release, 

And teach them all the blessedness of peace. 

Then State Avith State again shall clasp the hand. 

And in the ring of " auld acquaintance " stand. 



47 



Wherever slaves for Liberty aspire, 
And on her altars light the holy fire 
Of stern resistance to despotic will, 
Shall our success their hearts with courage fill, 
And nerve their arms with arguments the best, 
Drawn from the great republic of the West. 
But if, less happy than ourselves, they fail, 
'Tis only " weigh the anchor ; up with sail ! 
Turn the ship's prow to the Hesperian sky ; 
For there the pleasant lands of freedom lie." 
And when our shores have opened to their sight, 
And when theix waiting eyes have caught the light 
Of Freedom's stars upon the field of blue. 
They'll find the old Hesperian fables true ! 
North to the ice-seas fringed with arctic pines, 
South to the palm-trees and the silver mines, 
O'er rolling prairies stretching far between, — 
Bleak wastes of sands or wilds of living green, 
Where crags of rock high-towering pierce the skies, 
These pioneers shall go, and States arise. 

Across wide plains, through passes piled with snow, 
O'er deep ravines with torrents far below, 
From Eastern headlands to the Western beach, 
The iron highway of the land shall reach. 
Strung thick with cities as a thread with beads. 
The West with men, the East with gold, it feeds. 
The broad Pacific's ever-tranquil sea. 
The Adriatic of the years to be, 
Crowded with argosies of precious freight 
From the far Orient to the Golden Gate, 
The world's unending highway shall complete, 
And Russia's eagle and our own shall meet. 

Thus bright the morning of our future breaks, 
And brighter fancies in each bosom wakes ; 
Each eager mind some daring hope revolves, 
Each panting heart beats fast with high resolves ; 
And if our yearnings be unsatisfied, 
If our desires fruition be denied, 



48 



Still from true hopes that vanish unfulfilled 
There is a soothing recompense distilled, 
That doth refresh the spirit that it bends, 
Like benediction of departing friends. 



ODE. 



DEAR Mother, when far from thy fireside we stray, 
Where the world stretches pathless and wide. 
May we carry the light of thy precepts away, 

Our life's inspiration and guide ! — 
As, of old, the Greek colonist carried a flame. 

Still sacred where'er he might roam. 
And the fire on his hearth in strange lands was the same 
That burned on the altars of home. 

Although in the future we never shall meet 

Each brother that with us doth stand ; 
Though we never again may the pleasure repeat 

Of grasping some friend by the hand, — 
Yet, as long as we live, each familiar old face 

We shall ever in memory see. 
And as perfect a ring in our hearts shall have place 

As that which we'll make round the tree. 

For ever in duty's straight path may we tread, 

As the sons of old Harvard have trod ! 
May we follow where those bright examples have led. 

In the battle for man and for Grod ! 
And true to each other, and true to the right. 

With our years may our honor increase. 
Till safely we rest at the end of life's fight. 

Where meeting and parting shall cease ! 

7 



CLASS SONG. 
1867. 



Music selected by C. K. Fay, Chorister. Words by J. L. Sanborj?. 



Our Mother's care is o'er us, 

Her love is ours to-day, 
Her heroes gone before us 

Show us the living way. 
We sally forth new-knighted, 

In the good cause to fight ; 
Ever in heart united, 

In striving for the right. 

CHORUS. 

And though we now must part, 
For all the years so long, 

For ever will each heart 
Hear Sixty-Seven's Song. 

To all the happy pleasures 

Of four bright years, which lie 
With memory's dearest treasures. 

We bid to-day good-by. 
We go, and leave to others 

What we may not regain. 
We go to meet as brothers 

The world's joy and its pain. 

The tie can ne'er be broken 

That binds our hearts in one, 
The last farewell be spoken. 

Until our course is run. 
And when Time's ceaseless flying 

Brings us to life's decline. 
Still on our love undying 

Its setting sun shall shine. 



Class-IBas ©^cers. 



ORATOK. 

JOHN EDWARDS LEONARD, West Chester, Pa. 

POET. 

CHARLES SIBLEY GAGE, Concord, N.H. 

ODIST. 

EDWARD JACKSON LOWELL, Boston. 

CHIEF MARSHAL. 

ELIOT CHANNING CLARKE, Jamaica Plain. 

ASSISTANT MARSHALS. 

FRANKLIN JUDSON CLARK, Boston. 
JOHN COTTON JACKSON, Boston. 

CLASS-DAY COMMITTEE. 

JOHN LINDSLEY, Dorchester. 

EDWARD WINSLOW EOX, Portland, Me. 

CHARLES LORING JACKSON, Boston. 

CHAPLAIN. 

ALFRED HENRY HALL, Roxhunj. 

CHORISTER. 

CLEMENT KELSEY FAY, Brookline. 



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